Second-to-last performance. Christmas Day. And I still haven’t chosen him.
We dress in silence. We move around each other like we’ve done it for a lifetime. Getting ready feels surreal. Like I’ve stepped into some other girl’s life — a girl who isn’t grieving, or torn in half, or standing on the edge of a choice that could change everything. A girl who can just… slip into beauty.
But Rouge shoved a garment bag at me the moment he arrived and said, “Dress up, Dove. Dublin expects a Christmas miracle,” so here we are.
I unzip the bag in the bedroom and juststare. It’s breathtaking. A grand Christmas ball gown — deep crimson velvet that catches the light like embers, a sweetheart neckline, fitted bodice, full skirt that swishes around my legs like a romantic movie dream sequence. There’s delicate gold embroidery at the waist, tiny glints of starlight woven in thread.
The kind of gown symphonies are written for. The kind of gown you wear in front of kings.Or devils.
Cillian dresses behind me, the quiet rustle of his tux brushing the air. When I turn —Christ. He’s… devastating. A tailored black tuxedo with a subtle sheen, a deep wine-colored tie that matches my dress perfectly, hair tamed back, jaw freshly shaved, eyes softened and fierce at the same time.
I swallow. He notices.
“You’re staring, dove,” he murmurs.
“How could I not?”
He steps closer, taking my waist with careful hands that still feel like last night — warm, claiming, reverent. I smooth his lapel. “You clean up disgustingly well.”
He smirks. “So do you.”
Then there’s a knock. Rouge opens the door without waiting for permission, naturally, and leans in with a dramatic whistle.
“Well, damn,” he says. “Look at Dublin’s royal couple.”
I roll my eyes. Cillian glares. Rouge beams. He’s in a tux too — sharp navy with a black satin lapel — hair tied back, looking like a man who could attend a gala or stab someone in the coatroom and do both gracefully.
“Told you two to dress up,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to look like a magazine cover.”
“Shut up, Rouge,” Cillian mutters, grabbing our coats.
“Love you too, Captain.”
Outside, instead of his usual SUV, Rouge’s pulled up in a luxury car so sleek and polished it looks like it was made out of midnight. A Bentley. Black. Quiet. Sinful.
He gestures grandly. “Your carriage, my liege and lady.”
Cillian gives him a deadpan stare. “If you call me that again, I’ll shoot your tires.”
“Hot,” Rouge says, opening the back door for me. “Get in.”
I laugh despite myself, gathering my gown and ducking into the plush interior. Cillian slides in beside me, taking my hand immediately, thumb brushing across my knuckles. Rouge pulls away from the stable-house, snow drifting softly over the windshield, Dublin awakening in Christmas light.
We move toward the National Concert Hall — toward the stage, toward music, toward a future I’m still afraid to choose. But as Cillian lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist,
something warm blooms in my chest.
A crescendo. A warning. A promise.
The Bentley rolls up to the concert hall entrance, tires crunching over a thin layer of snow. Christmas lights glow in soft halos along the stone façade, flickering like tiny stars. And waiting for us— A crowd. Abigone.
Reporters, cameras, fans bundled in winter coats, flashing lights bouncing off the falling snow like glitter tossed into the wind.
Rouge whistles low. “Told you the city’d show up. Ready, duchess?”
Absolutely not. But I nod anyway. He steps out first, instantly swallowed by camera flashes. He circles to our door and opens it with a flourish that would be dramatic if it wasn’t so very him.
“Ladies first,” he says, bowing with obnoxious elegance.
